Beyond the Ink Pot
by ChimericalParoxysm
Summary: A series of one-shots for the 34 stories competition over on the HPFC forum. Rated M just in case.
1. Round 1: SeverusLily

A/N: As stated in the summary, this is in response to a challenge on the HPFC forum. Almost all of the entries will be entirely unconnected, and if they link back to a previous entry, then I'll throw down an Author's Note.

For the Judges: The round and pairing are both in the chapter title :)

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><p>A passing breath, a moment's hesitation, a whisper of a dream—that's all it ever was for them. And now… Now, for him, each breath was a triumph, each moment an eternity, and dreams never found him even in his deepest of sleeps. His days passed in living nightmares as he watched her laughing and dancing and studying—laughing and dancing and studying alongside <em>him<em>.

"You," began a soft voice, intruding on his misery, "are a complete and utter fool."

Severus stiffened instantly, but the darkness cloaked it from the visitor. He couldn't see her, but he knew who it was. "Go write Lucius, Narcissa, and keep your pale nose out of my business." His tone was cold, bitingly so, but Narcissa was long-used to his caustic remarks and so instead she sank into the plush couch beside him, content to fall into their usual dance of words.

"She wasn't ever yours, Severus," she replied in a tone only slightly less frigid than his. "Stop deluding yourself; it's appallingly pathetic."

The snarl she anticipated never came and her eyes narrowed in worry. "Sev, you haven't even spoken to her in over a year. Were you really expecting—"

"I expected nothing but for her not to lower herself to such levels," he cut across her, his voice flat.

Narcissa hesitated only a moment in deliberation; she _was_ a Slytherin after all. "Potter's not so bad, you know, Sev. All the girls think so," she began before forcing a gushing quality into her voice. "He's _handsome _and _rich_, a quidditch star with high aspirations. Plus, that thing he does with his _hair_… Well, it's positively dreamy."

"You can't make me angry, Cissa. I'm…" He paused, looking at her seriously, and she had to force herself not to recoil from the openness of his expression, and the agony written there. "I love her," he whispered hoarsely.

An oppressive silence fell upon them for a moment as Severus warred with the impulse to divulge his feelings, and Narcissa searched her extensive repertoire for words that might possibly be adequate.

They'd always been friends of a sort—though never like he and Lily. _Mudblood Evans_. The rest of the Slytherins thought he'd long since divested any attachment for her, but Narcissa knew much better. She'd watched as his love had grown: whispered debates over a bubbling cauldron, study sessions that crept late into the night, shared secrets and jokes—she'd never admit it, but they'd been "cute" together.

Lily had always been there when Severus needed. When he was struggling with an assignment, there was no one else he'd ever admit it to; when his mother had died, she was the only one he'd been willing to confide in; and when he was laughing, you knew Lily was somewhere nearby.

The months since Lily had abandoned him—the months since he had made such a simple mistake (Mudblood… Like he didn't hear it all day every day; it was a miracle it hadn't ever slipped out before then.)—had stretched lengthily behind them and Narcissa had continued to watch as he fell farther and farther into darkness. Oh how she longed to curse the girl into oblivion for crushing him so.

She glanced at him. His head was bowed, causing his hair to curtain his face, and she had to restrain herself from taking his hand in hers. As Slytherins they were already being far too sentimental. "You need to let her go, Severus," she confided softly, reluctantly. "What she and Potter have… Can't you _see_ that it's Forever?" His glittering eyes narrowed in the darkness —in denial or frustration, she couldn't tell. "If you don't let go of this, it will haunt you until the end of time…"

Her ominous words dropped heavily, one by one, into the darkness, but she knew he'd never heed them. And so, with a pang of remorse, she resigned herself to watching him slowly fade away.


	2. Round 2: HermioneCharlie

Three months ago, Hermione Granger had made up her mind. Medi-Witch. Minister of Magic. Legal Representative. Unspeakable. Potioneer. Professor. Auror. The options had spun over and over and over in her mind for months, ricocheting off the contours of her skull, and decimating the structure that had once been her brain. The uncertainty had burned through her confidence and consumed her. In the end, she felt like a lost and useless little girl, surrounded by expectations she could never fulfill. The need to just escape everything had built steadily until she finally could resist it no longer. And so here she was in bloody Romania. Romania with its heat and its strange food and— She glanced at the red-haired man beside her and smiled to herself. Romania wasn't so bad, really…

The lowlands of southern Romania were hot, and the thick July air was prodded only tentatively by a sluggish breeze that reached desperately down from the mountains. The climate made her hair frizzier than ever, and the sweat that slid down the back of her neck was surely anything but attractive. They came to a halt outside the mess hall. Hermione was out of breath from their lively morning jog, not quite used to it even after weeks, but Charlie took only a moment to regain his own and was soon grinning at her obvious difficulty.

"Look up," he suggested mildly, then laughed as her eyes narrowed. "No, seriously," he defended, "Looking down obstructs your airways. You should always look up when you're out of breath."

"Well it's hardly possible to look down when talking to _you_," she returned, a glimmer in her eyes that extended her challenge.

He opened his mouth to retort when one of his friends sauntered a bit blearily out of the mess. He glanced from Charlie, to Hermione, then back again. "Just kiss her will you, mate?" he yawned tiredly.

Hermione flushed but Charlie just looked at her with a wicked grin. Her breath caught as he began to stride confidently towards her. His calloused finger trailed somehow softly down her cheek, across her lips, that grin still firmly on his face. Her eyes fluttered shut reflexively, and, apparently taking this as a good sign, he leaned in and captured her lips with his.

And oh was it ever _everything_ she'd ever imagined his kisses ought to be: rough, and soft; a little dangerous, and a little safe at the same time; passionate, but with a sort of light quality she'd never be able to properly explain. His one hand rested firmly at the back of her neck and the other pulled her closer to him. He pulled away after a moment and Hermione looked up at him dazedly, unsure whether her lack of breath was due to the kiss, or the jog.

"Well then," she muttered.

"Good on yeh, mate," came a voice from behind her. Charlie laughed as Hermione whirled around and flushed. No less than eight of Charlie's fellow Dragon Keepers had piled out of the mess and were happily exchanging what could only have been bet money. Hermione felt her embarrassment mounting. Charlie noticed, however, and slid his fingers through hers, stooped to kiss her cheek, then led her past his mates and into the mess for breakfast.

Hermione felt a foolish smile spread across her face, and only barely resisted the urge to press her free hand to her cheek. She glanced down at their hands, so nonchalantly intertwined, and then up to Charlie.

"Stop thinking," he chided softly, a good-natured grin on his face.

And so, for just this once, she did.


	3. Round 3: BellatrixHermione Obsession

Hermione Granger made her sick. Despite the girl's obstinate, bossy intellect, there was an underlying streak of purity so vicious and enduring that a single glance into her eyes sent anger and disgust coursing through Bella's veins. And yet there was a certain allure there, too. Ever since that night in the Department of Mysteries... Bella wanted to break her. She craved it. She _needed_ it. And finally, after an entire year, she could do it.

Waiting had been agonizing. Days flicking past faster than she could account for as she waited for her Lord's go ahead. But she'd been watching all the long year. Watching that smiling, ignorant face. Watching her disgusting Gryffindorish displays. Watching her careful planning and her surmounting fear. But Bella had been planning, too. Just as carefully.

Today. Today it would all begin. And when she was finished, the girl would be _nothing_.

Bella cackled her glee, a harsh sound that filled the air around her. Her arms flung out of their own accord and she found herself skipping down the halls of the manor, words of nonsense flying musically from her twisted lips. Today.

xXx

Hermione Granger warily entered her childhood home, Harry close at her side. Her footsteps seemed to her so loud as to possibly belong to Grawp. Heavy. Weighted down by fear and uncertainty. She was glad Harry was with her, for all that she'd told him he needn't come. Ron had had to leave with his family long before, but Harry had waited with her, waited two long, hopeless hours.

Her best friends' concern at her parents' absence from the station had warmed the slight chill in her heart, and now the absence of the Dark Mark above her house allowed her the smallest of reliefs, but still she couldn't free herself from the fear. In that moment she felt herself able to understand what the older generation had always spoken of with such conviction; a fear so insurmountable it haunted every shadow; an uncertainty that rose from _knowing_ that something awful had happened in your very own home, something that couldn't possibly have, something you just couldn't believe, couldn't think.

Harry gently shut the door behind them, and the sound felt ominous in the hush of the house. Sensing her fear, he gently took her hand in his and they started through.

Moments later Bella heard the shrill scream from outside where she waited, and she savoured the taste of agony which trembled along her taste buds. She could feel the Chosen One's fury shivering out through the windows, the doors, the cracks in the walls.

The picture painted so bloodily upon her mind was delicious. A little girl, fallen to the floor of a place she once thought safe, ripples of pain pulsing outward from her sobbing form. A boy—her champion, strong and brave but unable to save her from her torture, unable to end the bloodshed—standing tall above her, helpless to answer her call. Bella knew he was taking in what the girl could not. _Not yet_. Blood that smeared the cream kitchen walls, splattered the yellow curtains. Bodies defiled, mutilated, splayed upon the polished ceramic tiles.

Bella knew what he would guess. Torture. Rape. Endless pain. She laughed softly to herself. The first crack was made. Elation shuddered violently through her body. Soon, the girl would fall. Soon, Hermione Granger would be hers.


	4. Round 5: TomOrion

Regulus Black knelt before him, his head bowed in deference, but Tom could sense that Black streak of defiance—of independent thought—slithering deep beneath the surface. A wave of nostalgia whispered over his barely-there heart, but Tom brushed it away absently. This Black's hair was somewhat thicker, his nose was a bit too angular, and his eyes… well, his eyes were the main issue. For the boy looked all too much like his father, all too much like another boy. But his eyes were bluer, not that flinty steel that once smouldered with lust and with lo —

Tom beat back the thoughts once more, but with no more success. As Regulus rose, his pureblood upbringing evidenced in his perfect posture and his arrogant stance, Tom sank into memory too strong for him to resist.

xXx

A spell shot past Tom, colliding with the wall of the ruin and sending dust and shards of rock flying. He instantly cleared the air with his wand, shielding his back against the rubble, then fired a flaming snake into Orion's face.

"You'll have to do better than that, mate!" Orion shouted, turning the snake to a blazing rose, which fell to smoulder at his feet.

"Becoming a romantic?" Tom sneered, dodging a curse just in time. "I'll have to send you off to the Gryffindors."

He received merely a snort in response. And then Orion was gone. Tom froze. For a moment he felt a trickle of the fear that all prey must feel at having been penned in by a predator. He held his breath, trying to sense Orion's location. His heart sped up in excitement. A new game. His eyes scanned the darkness between the trees, adrenaline flooding his veins.

"Come and find me," a bodiless voice whispered in his ear. "If you can." Tom shivered. He could taste the taunting dominance in Orion's demand, and he _longed_ to take it from him.

"_Homenum Revelio!_" Tom instantly slunk toward the marker that flickered and winked out not far off in the distance. As he got closer, he could smell Orion's unique mingling of vanilla and darkness and another shiver trembled down his spine. He knew Orion could hear his footsteps on the forest floor, creeping closer and closer, wondered whether the same excitement shuddered through _him_.

Just then, Orion, clearly beginning to feel the turning of the tables, swept out from behind a tree. A light flush kissed his aristocratic features. The image was delicious—irresistible. Tom pinned him to the tree behind which he'd been hiding, their breath mingling between them as he stared intensely into the deep grey eyes before him, searching.

"Ah," he breathed, watching them darken before him. A heartbeat's pause, and then Tom crushed his lips to Orion's. They were always struggling for dominance—socially, academically, athletically—and so, of course, their first of kisses was no different, each trying to gain control, to surpass the other, to elicit the best sounds. It tasted of velvet and tempered steel, felt like chocolate and red wine. And in that moment of beginnings, their worlds, not just their bodies, collided together irrevocably.

xXx

Tom came back to the scene before him, a sneer on his lips. To be taken captive by such remembrances… Clearly he was still much too weak. He silently cursed the last vestiges of his heart and his soul, and then he placed his wand to the arm of his past lover's son, revelling in the tortured pain that he so carefully inflicted.


	5. Round 6: TerryCharlie Penpals

It had started with the death of his sister. Vanessa Boot had been beautiful and smart; a Ravenclaw herself, she had high aspirations—goals she refused to compromise. When she got sick… well, everything changed. Depression was something no amount of chocolate could wash away (not that he hadn't tried), and Terry had watched as his sister sank deeper and deeper into its alluring quagmire, losing touch with everything she'd always been, and everything she'd always wanted. Terry's world had shattered into a billion pieces as he'd read the note—the carefully worded letter that divulged her darkest thoughts to him. They'd each gotten one. His father. His mother. His younger brother… And _him._

Grief. Rage. Helplessness. A dark cloud of swirling emotion consumed him, and it all culminated in one resounding though: "If he hadn't left, she'd still be here."

So Terry wrote him a letter. A letter filled with angry lashes of accusation. Onto the parchment he had poured all of the fury and rage that consumed his heart, his very being. Spiteful. Malicious. The ink had spattered the clean white margins in his haste to bleed the venom from his soul, the scene of a violent crime. That night, his owl long gone, Terry had allowed himself a fleeting moment of guilt before determinedly setting fire to it once more.

He had never expected a response.

But a response had come nonetheless, in Charlie Weasley's scrawling script, but with a hesitancy that seemed to change the shape of each word. Terry's sister's ex-boyfriend sent him words of comfort, of consolation, of reassurance, but beneath it all, Terry could feel the heartbreak and loss that breathed through each syllable. Charlie Weasley still loved Vanessa. And that simple fact was enough to commence a correspondence between them.

At first they shared memories, memories and grief, but slowly the present crept into their confidences; worries and dreams and hopes and fears began slipping onto the page. Slowly, they began to heal.

Months had passed since their first missives, and Terry eagerly opened the letter from the man he'd begun to consider a big brother. The parchment was stained with bittersweet reminiscence—Terry could tell by the slant of the letters, and the absence of doodles around the edges. He braced himself against the flood that was sure to come, and dove into Charlie's words.

_Terry,_

_Hope everyone there's doing alright. How's your owl? Better?_

_Look, mate, it's been a while now, that we've been writing back and forth, and I think it's time that I finally properly address that first letter. I guess, by now, you must've forgiven me for coming to Romania; I'm not sure I ever will._

His hand shook a little. He wasn't sure he wanted to keep reading. Mightn't it be better to just remain oblivious? What if something was written there that would ruin his friendship with Charlie? After the healing they'd gone through together, would it all come undone?

_See, your sister and I were perfect. Everything was _so_ good. We were happy together; we made each other smile and dream and hope. Until I decided I wanted to be in Romania._

Terry reflexively glared at the word. He knew Charlie was happy there, with his dragons, but even so…

_You know how I feel about dragons; being here, it's always been a dream of mine, and Vanessa knew that… but when I really_ decided_, when I asked her to come with me—_

When he'd what? Why hadn't he known Charlie wanted her to come? Had she said _no_?

—_she just… I guess something in her… broke. Vanessa started acting strangely after that. Distant. I didn't really understand it at the time, I guess, didn't understand just how unwell she was… I thought it was about me; I thought she didn't want to come. _

There was a sharp wobble in the letters toward the end; Terry could feel the boy's regret, inscribed upon the page.

_And then one day, I finally asked her. I couldn't stand it any longer, and she said, "I'm sorry, Charlie, but I won't be going with you." That was it, and then she apparated away. The way she said it, Terry, I just knew she had broken up with me, but I wasn't ready to accept it. Sure, I left for Romania, and Merlin knows I should have stayed. I should have stood at her window until she finally let me back it. But I left instead. I sent her letter after letter, I swear to you; I tried to make her take me back._

Teardrops marred the parchment here, and Terry felt tears of his own pressing against his eyes.

_Days passed. Weeks. Months. And still I sent her letters. I hadn't any hope left that she would reply, but I wanted her to be a part of my life, and it seemed like, by taking the time to tell her about my day, she still was._

_And then one day a letter _did_ come. I recognized her writing on the front, recognized the owl as hers, and a wave of joy—of relief—consumed me. And then I saw that there was something wrong with it; the writing was off, and when I pulled the letter from its envelope I saw the tears that blurred her writing._

_In that letter, she told me she was leaving, told me she was gone—for it takes time for a letter to travel to Romania. "I'm broken, Charlie, my love," she began, "and I fear that I can never be fixed. I couldn't be who I wanted to be for you—I've lost my passion, my drive, my fire. So I sent you away. And now I send myself."_

Terry's tears dripped from his cheeks, crashing against the words, as though trying to desperately to erase them.

_I'm sorry, mate. I truly am. I love her. And I let her fall. But now you know, as you so deserved. _

_Charlie_

For a moment, the desire to crumple the letter and cast it as far away as it would go was consuming, but Terry wiped the tears from his eyes, and set it carefully aside. Then, pulling to him parchment and a quill, he set to work, letting words of consolation and comfort soothe across the page, just as Charlie had once done for him.


	6. Round 8: FleurBill

A/N: This is part one of two. The second part will appear in Round 34. (I'll post a reminder in the Author's Note of that entry!)

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><p>"Leave me alone!" he snarls. I stumble back at the low growl in his voice, my body shaking slightly as I take in his bared teeth and fierce expression. Suddenly he's shoving me against the wall, his nails biting into my soft flesh, a ferocious look on his face, framed by a tangled mane of red locks.<p>

"Bill?" I ask uncertainly, almost timidly, in a voice far from characteristic.

A sound drifts down the stairs and he freezes. Victoire's needful cries. I watch, helpless, as Bill staggers backwards slightly, releasing me from his furious grasp. "Get out," he growls. "Get Victoire, and get the _fuck_ out."

Concern for my baby is the only thing preventing me from halting at the tortured look in my husband's eyes. Instead, I rush up the stairs to Victoire's room, jumping violently at the chaotic crash that emerges from the floor below.

"Hush, ma Victoire," I whisper softly, gathering her gently into my arms. "Mama est ici." Another crash—louder this time. I don't wait for Victoire to calm, shutting my eyes tightly and apparating us away. The dark, forbidding door that looms before me whispers promises of safety, and my fear dulls in their embrace.

"Shh, Victoire," I soothe, pulling her close against the winter chill. "Everything is going to be fine. Remus will help."

A fortifying breath, and steady knock, and I am soon sitting before a warm, crackling fire, Victoire in a, seated, Tonks' capable hands, and Remus perched beside me, waiting—patient as always, but worried.

"He's worse," I manage hoarsely, trying to keep my French accent, which usually now emerges only after time spent with my family, from my voice. "So very much worse."

Remus' eyes narrow. Perhaps he smells the blood on my arms. "He hurt you." A statement, not a question. I maintain my strength long enough to reveal the crescents of blood, which my husband left upon me, and then the tears of weeks—of years—begin to flow, unbidden.

"He's been getting worse for a long time," Tonks observes solemnly. The blanket Remus wraps around my shoulders offers little comfort, but I fall easily into his arms, which follow it. It _has_ been a long time—ever since Greyback's attack. Slowly my tears subside, and I pull away to blow my nose, heedless of the lack of grace in the act. I look awful when I cry, I know, the act wreaking havoc on my pale complexion and delicate features. Just now, I don't care.

"You're certain the outbursts are cycle-related?" Remus asks as I sniffle repugnantly.

My answering nod is reluctant. I'd denied it a long time—ignoring the increasingly uncontrolled bursts of anger and the depressive episodes that would follow, living in the weeks of normalcy in between, when my loving, upbeat husband would return to me. But as the severity of Bill's "condition" increased, and could no longer be reasonably blamed entirely on the increasingly distant war, I began, almost subconsciously, to track his mood.

"A week on either side of the mood, always, like clockwork." My voice is too choked to be heard by any human ears, but tomorrow's the full moon, and so Remus hears just fine, his face turning grave. A glance exchanged between the werewolf and his wife tells me this confirmation was not only expected, but much-discussed. A trill of inexplicable fury runs through me at the thought.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" I find myself hissing, thought I don't really know why. "Do you two know something that I don't?"

A silent exchange has Tonks setting Victoire in a charmed bassinette that they kept in the corner—for any visiting baby, but for mine in particular; Victoire and I have been spending more and more time at the Lupin household of late.

"Fleur… Tonks and I know nothing more than you. All three of us have talked about this, remember?"

But the anger inside me refuses to be allayed. "Don't patronize me," I snap ungratefully. They look at me uncertainly, unsure of how to approach me, and I feel instantly ashamed. We fall into silence.

"I didn't want to believe it," I whisper finally. "After the attack… appetite changes, a few scars… I could handle that—that was _nothing_." I've spent so long hiding from the thoughts that the words come slowly. "There were so many '_good'_ reasons for him to be… to be angry, to be sad: the attack, Dumbledore, Fred, the war in general… I just… it was so easy to explain it all away."

"We all thought that was why," Tonks comforts, but I'm beyond consolation just now.

"Victoire was born, and I shut out the thought that perhaps it should've had some effect on him… 'It's too soon,' I told myself, 'Give him some time.' But the doubt was there—especially when I realized that he was getting _worse_." I fix Remus with a look that I hope is less pleading that I feel. "Please, Remus, you're a werewolf, there must be some way to help him."

My eyes and my words must reveal more of my pain that I think though, if their own are any measure. "I've asked around, Fleur," Remus confesses. "No one's ever heard of anything like it. Most of Greyback's other victims didn't survive the war."

"What about the Wolfsbane Potion?" I hear myself asking desperately. "Surely that would do _something_."

Remus' look is filled with doubt, but his reluctance to discuss his lycanthropy has Tonks answering for him. "The Wolfsbane Potion is specifically designed for werewolves, Fleur. It wouldn't help Bill any more than it would help a woman at that time of the month."

"But the problem is _caused_ by werewolf venom," I protest. "How can it be so different?" My voice is only so shrill because it feels like my last hope is being dashed to pieces before my very eyes.

"But he's _not_ a werewolf; there was never a transformation to the venom purpose. Remus thinks that it may be causing a chemical imbalance in Bill's brain."

Images of patients in the Janus Thickey ward flit through my mind and I feel my blood freeze as I imagine my Bill lost in an endless rage filled with violent outbursts he can affect only upon himself. "What does that mean?" My voice trembles.

Tonks' fortifying breath is obvious, and does nothing to reassure either of us. "It means… that we think the only way to help Bill is to alter the _venom_, not the symptoms."

My stomach plummets. "But… that would mean…"

"Either removing the venom, or giving it a purpose… full lycanthropy."

"Bill!" I gasp, turning to face the silhouette in the doorway. It takes only a moment to determine that the rage has faded to depression. A cloud of hopeless defeat cloaks him.

"I guess I didn't merit an invitation to this party," he says dryly, and I see the hurt in his eyes.

All three of us begin speaking at once, but fall silent when my husband raises his hand. "It's alright. Really. I suppose I'm not really surprised." He turns to me and his voice fills with sorrow. "I'm putting you through hell—I'm so sorry, love… I'd hoped, once I realized the cause… realized it was the moon… I'd hoped that I could find a way to control it, that I could… could brace myself for it. But tonight, God, after tonight there are only two options."

My heart stops beating. "No," I say shakily. I don't know what these two options are, only that he mustn't, that I mustn't allow—

"And as I'm not interested in leaving my wife and child," he continues determinedly, and it's all I can do to not clap my hands over my ears defiantly, "that leaves being properly bitten."

"But… No. No, you can't. What about the venom—we'll get it out, we'll remove it."

My heart beats once. Twice.

"It won't happen, love. They'll sooner cure lycanthropy—they're at least already working on that; there's funding for it.

And then shatters.

"You can't just give up, Bill. Please, you _can't_." Desperation. Pleading. I don't care about being strong right now.

His eyes bore into mine. Love. Conviction. Devotion. All ablaze within them. "Never."

Tonks has moved to Remus' side in anticipation of my husband's next words. "You'll do it, Remus, won't you?" And the trust in his voice allows Remus no choice.


	7. Round 9: HarryJournalTom

Dark eyes burning with a cold fire vanished from the air. Harry brushed away the heat that rushed through him at their intensity and inspected himself carefully in the conjured mirror.

He'd learnt ages ago how to feed it _just_ enough life, how to slip into it _just_ enough of himself… how to bring _him_ alive. A drop of blood on the page, a whispered incantation, and then all that was left to do was _feel_—to savour the darkness inside him and to let it seep through the bindings. He felt adrenaline flooding his veins, felt the blackest of magics infiltrate every particle of his being, and then—Harry shivered at the thought—then _he_ would arise. Bound so long between the blank pages of a book, confined so long within a memory… But Harry had set him free.

Harry was soon sweeping through the entrance of the Slytherin common room. Sleek greens and the tang of tarnished silver greeted him and he inhaled the scent of dark magic and dank dungeon with an expression akin to mocking reminiscence. It was all so quaint to him now—now that he'd discovered the lair of the Basilisk, now that he'd discovered the diary, now that he'd discovered _him_.

Draco was seated on the couch, his eyes boring into Harry's flesh, his very being breathing expectancy. He didn't know why Harry no longer came to him in the darkness. The Prince of Slytherin couldn't understand for whom his King could forsake him. Harry knew that Draco was remembering nights filled with passion and need; nights filled with _love_. Love tainted by their twisted souls, perhaps, but love true enough. Harry felt a pang in his heart; he himself couldn't explain why he chose a memory over his flesh and blood lover. But then the past few hours seeped to the forefront of his mind, and the lust flushed away all else. No, he knew why he chose Tom Riddle.

Tom was darkness deeper than anything he'd ever experienced before. He was strength, and malice, and the blackest of souls. He was _power_, and dominance, and the most tainted of lusts. Harry looked into Draco's eyes and he saw the streak of purity, of love, and a sneer came over his face. That streak seemed to taint his own darkness, to shed light on things he wanted to forget. Harry turned abruptly and stormed back through the portrait. He stalked angrily through the corridors until he reached the one he needed. Moments later he had reached his destination, revelling in the coolness of the Chamber of Secrets. He tore the small book from his pocket, spattering a page with hastily shed blood, and pressed his wand to it with poorly concealed desperation.

The flood of darkness from his soul and into the diary was rushing, and he poured perhaps more than he normally would—more than he maybe ought to have. A wave of weakness overcame him and he dropped to his knees as his darkest of lovers emerged from the precious pages.

"What's happened?" the cold voice demanded.

Harry shook his head and dragged himself to his feet. "Make me forget," he whispered harshly.

Tom's eyes narrowed only a moment, and then Harry was being pressed against the wall. He felt the cool wetness of ancient stone seeping through his shirt, and then he felt nothing but Tom's lips upon his own and his roughly demanding passion.

When Harry didn't turn up to breakfast the next day, Draco began to worry. The day trudged past in painful slowness, and when Harry still had not appeared by curfew, Draco made up his mind. He crept from the common room silently, retracing the path he'd followed Harry upon so many times. It took him several tries to reproduce the sound his lover always made before the faucets, and then he descended into the bowels of the school. It was only then that he allowed himself to feel the worry that was building in his heart. The closer he got to his destination, whatever it might be, the more terrified he became of what he might find beneath the school.

_Please let him be alright_.

The fear had mounted too high and he found himself running, splashing loudly through the shallow water of the chamber. And then he froze.

"No!" His scream echoed through the stone buttresses, rippled the water at his feet.

"Yes," a dry voice said softly. "Yes, indeed. The idiot has left us."

Draco's eyes flew to the tall, dark, handsome boy. "You did this," he snarled, starting toward him with his wand drawn, a surge of anger and pain roiling through his veins. "You killed him. You took him from me, and then you took him from… from everyone."

Tom laughed, a smirk rising to his lips. "No, little Malfoy. His own haste and foolishness took his life. I merely made his departure more pleasant."

But Draco wasn't listening. The rage was building, was roaring in his ears. "Avada Kadavra!" He watched the green light consume his opponent. Tom disappeared and ink began to spurt from the book that had lain at his feet, but Draco didn't notice. He lunged toward the body of the boy he loved, his heart tearing into a thousand shards of glass and painfully piercing his flesh.

Spell after spell flew from his lips, entreating Harry to return to him, to come back from whatever darkness he'd entered. Hours passed, and his magic drained, and his energy waned, and he finally collapsed upon Harry's chest in grief and defeat.

"I love you," he whispered into the darkness, and it seemed to him that the chamber echoed it back mockingly as tears spread across Harry's thoroughly mussed shirt.


End file.
